


EPISODE 0: THE HUNTER'S DUTY

by rapunzariccia



Category: Original Work, Star Wars - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6429568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapunzariccia/pseuds/rapunzariccia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A LONG TIME AGO, IN A GALAXY FAR, FAR AWAY...</p><p>An original canon set in the Star Wars universe a couple hundred years after the canon of SWTOR. Follows the adventures of Shakka'ni, a Twi'lek bounty hunter, as she tracks down a Zabraki smuggler. Featuring as much lore-consistency as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	EPISODE 0: THE HUNTER'S DUTY

**Author's Note:**

> You wouldn't believe the amount of research that went into a meager 2000 wordcount.
> 
> This story is set a couple centuries after the events of SWTOR. The Galactic Empire is starting to be pieced together: soldiers and outposts dot the galaxy. Jedi are neither rare nor in excess, and the Sith are in the same boat. THD initially takes place on SON-TUUL, an actualised planet within the Star Wars canon that sits in the Outer Rim Territories. Jandawa is a city of my own design. All characters are my own design, although I cannot lay claim to their races or the canon they belong to.

Varlo Ladd is, incredibly, still alive.

This is despite his refusal to stop complaining about the humidity of the jungle. That it is hot out is not a secret. Son-Tuul's summers are never pleasant; the planet rotates slower than Coruscant or Alderaan and its tilt is very similar to Tatooine's, so there are more hours in a day for the heat to build and stifle its inhabitants. Almost every leaf in the jungle seems to be wet, but it hasn't rained in days.

“I just think,” Varlo says, knowing full well that one day Davin's patience is going to run out, “that they ought to give us some kind of coolant when they make us come out here. It's not fair on us. Sure, we're in good health, but that won't keep if they make us do this too often.”

It wouldn't be so bad if they were able to take their helmets off, but there are things in the jungle that like the taste of human flesh. There's no breeze out here, though. If it's muggy in the city then it's oppressive out here, but there's no helping that.

“I don't even think a good scrub will take this grime off,” Varlo adds, a touch bitter.

For the first time since they left Jandawa, Davin responds. “Shut up,” he says, though he sounds more bored than hostile. “Deal with it like everyone else does.”  
“I do!”  
“ _Silently_ ,” Davin adds. He can't see it, but he's earned himself a smirk. One day he's going to hit his patrol buddy and it will be so completely worth it. Currently he's pulling a radio from his belt and thumbing it on. “Oh-four-fifty and oh-four-sixty-seven calling in. How close are we?”

The two men have been walking together in mostly silence for a while, so the crackle of the radio sounds strangely alien to them. “Current location is seventy by one-three-three. Bear south, guys. Over.”

“Affirmative, Jandawa. Will radio in when we get there. Over.”

He clips the radio back on his belt in one smooth motion, neither of them having stopped moving. “Sundown's in an hour and a half. Let's pick up the pace.”

Varlo is sticky and hot and his feet hurt, but the thought of being in the jungle past dark does not appeal to him. “Yeah,” he says, and ignores the way his tongue tries to stick to the roof of his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 The radio comes to life again to tell them when they're approaching the crash site, but it's not necessary. There's still a ways to go, but they're starting to see the damage already. The jungles of Son-Tuul are filled with thick-trunked trees that tower over the largest building in Jandawa, and here they are leant over as though something tried to pull them out of the earth. The closer they get to the coordinates, the more destruction they see. It gets worrying when they see tree roots ripped up from deep underground and no sign of any other familiar foliage. The next sign that something's amiss is a large chunk of scorched metal resting on the ground.

They pause to look at it and then continue on their way.

It takes a couple minutes to follow the impact marks to their origin. A ship, all burned up and still steaming from its re-entry, rests nose-deep in the ground. It's not a familiar model, which means the pilot either stole it or it's not military-grade. Parts of the hull are crumpled in on themselves; other parts are hanging off precariously. The cockpit is completely open to the world, its covering either shattered or melted from the descent or impact.

“Shit,” Davin says. Varlo agrees with him. There's not even a single insect making noise out here. The only sounds are the breaths of both men and the steady sizzle of hot metal cooling.

Varlo approaches the ship while Davin reaches for his radio and tunes him out while he calls in the wreckage. Son-Tuul doesn't get a lot of visitors; the ones they do get tend to arrive in far less violent fashions. There's nothing indicating what model of ship it might be, nor what its crew might look like. The more he looks, the less likely it seems like anyone's made it out of the crash. An unmanned ship? That would explain why it crashed so worryingly close to Jandawa and why all attempts to hail it went ignored.

The hull's metal is warm enough that he can feel it through his gloves, but the protective gear they're wearing means that it doesn't burn his skin. That's promising. Standard issue gloves can only prevent so many burns. Varlo places his palm flat on the metal and doesn't need to jerk away at any point, so he sets his sights on the cockpit. It's higher up than he is tall, which means he'll have to work to get into it. Davin's taller than him but still occupied on the radio.

Amongst the things he's carrying are a pair of climbing claws. Every patrol takes a pair with them when they leave the city in case they're locked out: the Hutt's guards aren't forbidden from locking people out if they want, and more often than not they enjoy any excuse for wanton cruelty. Things that like the taste of human flesh are thankfully bad at climbing. The thick trees that cover Son-Tuul make a good place to sleep when pressed, and climbing claws make it possible to protect oneself.

The claws aren't meant to be used on anything thicker than hard bark, so pulling himself up the hull is impossible. They give him a little boost on his height, though, and the extra reach is just enough that he's able to hook the claws into the cockpit and hoist himself up. Every muscle in his arms are screaming by the time he makes it up. Since the guards like to trap whoever they can outside they make it a habit to be back before sundown, and they don't often practise such movements.

Varlo takes a moment to take a breath before he realises he's not the only person in here.

In a heartbeat he's stuck his head out of the cockpit again. Davin's putting the radio away and approaching the ship cautiously; he can only imagine the dressing-down he's going to receive later. “There's someone here!” he calls, and his partner is already moving, pulling out his own pair of claws. “Twi'lek. Female. She's hurt,” he adds, and moves away from the open hole.

Davin makes it up quicker than he did, courtesy of a strict work-out regime, and not nearly so out of breath. He still takes a moment to assess the situation: the Twi'lek is strapped into the pilot's seat, belts the only thing keeping her there. The ship's nose is wedged deep in the earth, and she's parallel with the ground, head slumped forward. Her lekku dangle either side of her head, interestingly striped. More worryingly, her skin's been ripped to shreds courtesy of what looks like glass shards scattered here and there, probably the cockpit's window.

It's awkward getting her out. Neither man wants to move her too roughly on the off chance she's still alive, although it doesn't seem like it's likely at this point. Davin positions himself so she's propped over his shoulder and knee, and Varlo unclips the belts holding her in. She slumps further forward, a dead weight.

“We're going to have to just jump down,” Davin says, tone carefully emotionless. “If she's still with us it's going to hurt, but neither of us are tall enough to lift her down safely. You go first.”

It's an easy thing jumping down again, but the Twi'lek suffers the indignity of being shaken around as she's lowered. They lay her on the ground, arrange her head so there's no chance of her choking on her tongue. Davin presses two fingers against her wrist for a moment, and then reaches so quickly for his radio that Varlo actually flinches.

“Jandawa,” he says, flicking the comm on. “We have one confirmed survivor. Twi'lek female, unconscious, likely badly injured. External lacerations, but she's mostly intact. Ship's shield must have been insane. Please advise.”

 

* * *

 

 Jandawa advises keeping her as still as possible while bringing her back, two things that are mutually impossible. Without a first-aid kid or training there's no way she'll ever wake up, and while both men have basic medical training, neither of them are doctors. Neither of them have anything they can make a stretched from, and they don't want to waste time looting the ship for materials, so they decide to put her on Varlo's back and move as quickly as they can.

She's a complete dead weight and they need to strap her wrists together to keep her on Varlo's back. Even with this aid her head lolls back and forth with every step. Davin, walking ahead to check for uneven ground, looks back every few seconds.

It's getting darker when they see Jandawa's walls, but they're able to radio ahead to keep the gates open. It's a close thing. Today's guards are a pair of Wookiees carrying heavy-looking rifles that eye them as they walk by, but let them pass. It's the first blessing of the day. The Rodrian guards the Hutts employ like to mouth off and start arguments, but the Wookiees are the ones to look out for. More than one of them is trigger happy, claiming Son-Tuul's native wildlife threatens the city. It doesn't. Son-Tuul's wildlife knows better.

Jandawa's surprisingly alive. There's always beggars and thieves hanging around, but dusk tends to be when people start retiring. If you're not a Hutt, chances are you don't have much money, so few of the buildings have any sort of air conditioning units. The only way to get a decent breeze is to leave the house. Children stay outside all day and come in when called; adults come in knowing that staying out past sundown makes their lives forfeit if they come across the wrong people.

Word must have spread about the Twi'lek. The city's Twi'lek inhabitants stare as they go by, as do most others. A group of Rodrians looks like they might try to get in the way, but Davin keeps his shoulders straight and a hand at his waist – next to his blaster. No one interferes. That's the problem with Outer Rim colonies. Everyone's always on edge.

From the gate it's only a short walk to the medical cells. They bypass the empty waiting room and bring the Twi'lek to the first room on the left. Inside it, equipment is humming quietly, ready to save lives, and Jonquil is waiting for them. She's already donned medical mask and gloves.

“Put her on the table,” she says without waiting for them to greet her. “Gently.”

Varlo lays her down. He tilts her head to one side to keep her breathing, and wonders just how uncomfortable it must be to sleep on lekku. The medic shoos him out of the way, gives the girl a once-over, and bends very close to her mouth.

All at once she straightens and throws a dramatic finger at a medical droid waiting for orders. “Get me two irrigation bulbs, all the bacta patches we have and anything manufactured by Chiewab.”

The droid beeps understanding and wheel itself away. “And a saline IV,” she adds without turning.

Watching Jonquil work is a privilege. No sooner does she finish barking orders at her automaton helper, she's pulling tweezers from a pocket and starts extracting tiny pieces of glass that a soldier's eye would miss. Once she's given the materials she asked for, she makes magic happen. Blood is washed away and scrapes are cleaned out. The Twi'lek's green skin is augmented by bacta slatered on the deeper wounds. A broken shin is set, countless bandages are applies, and a saline-water mixture is fed into her arm.

It takes a little under an hour before Jonquil finally takes a step back to admire her handiwork. It's not pretty, but it looks better than if she'd been left untreated to bleed out on the table. She's snapping off the gloves and tosses them to the side – her droid picks them up without complaint – and all at once she seems very, very tired.

“Nothing else to do now but wait,” she says.

 


End file.
